


Gates of Horn and Ivory

by The_Bookkeeper



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, References to Suicide, gratuitous Doctor Who reference, reid-centric, teamfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bookkeeper/pseuds/The_Bookkeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams are tapestries woven from hope and fear and truth. Even the best analyzers of human psychology can't always unravel them, but they can try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gates of Horn and Ivory

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ворота из рога и кости слоновой](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447279) by [Bathilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda)



> The sections are in chronological order, beginning sometime around 'The Eyes Have It' and ending up around 'Hope.' It's probably pretty evident, but Hotch's section is before 'Lauren,' JJ's is after, and Prentiss' is after 'Proof'. Other than that, specific times don't really matter.

> "Two gates for ghostly dreams there are: one gateway _  
>  _of honest horn, and one of ivory._  
>  _Issuing from the ivory gate are dreams_  
>  _of glittering illusion, fantasies,_  
>  _but those that come through solid polished horn_  
>  _may be borne out . . ."__ —Homer

.

.

.

Derek dreams that he's running. He's running fast, as fast as he possibly can, his lungs burning, his legs aching, but he knows, he knows that he can't escape –

But he's not trying to escape, not running _from_ anything. And now it's even worse because it's not his life on the line, not his own doom that faces him if he doesn't get there fast enough, but he can't reach it, he won't reach it in time –

The noise is half explosion, half gunshot, and all deafening. Suddenly Derek is actually getting somewhere, but it's too late, just that split second too late, and he falls to his knees beside the crumpled form.

"No," he gasps out as he realizes who it is – he's shocked, but he shouldn't be, of course it's him, it's always him – all his reason and his training and the cold, hard knowledge that there's nothing he can do go right out the window as panic floods him. He grips the figure's too-thin shoulders, shakes him, orders and begs and pleads – "C'mon, wake up. Don't do this, kid, don't you dare give up on me! Please – please, Reid, just _wake up_ –"

"Morgan, wake up!"

He jerks awake. Hotch's hand is on his shoulder, his neck aches, and there's a piece of paper sticking to his cheek. He peels it off and rubs his hands over his face as Hotch steps back and eyes him, evaluating.

"Alright?" he asks at last.

"Yeah," says Derek, glancing around the bullpen. It's dark and empty – he must have been more tired than he thought. He could swear he only shut his eyes for a few moments . . .

"Morgan," says Hotch, in a less gruff tone which, for him, passes for gentle. "The paperwork can wait until morning. Go home." Hotch might not technically be in charge anymore, but Derek knows an order when he hears one.

"Yes, sir," says Derek half-jokingly as he stretches, trying to work the soreness out of his shoulders. Too late, he realizes how that might sound, but Hotch just shakes his head with something like amusement in his eyes. It's the closest thing to a smile which Derek has seen from him in weeks.

" _Go,_ Morgan."

"Going."

The brief nap was enough that he's not struggling to keep his eyes open on the way home, but he is struggling to keep his mind on the road. He's used to nightmares, even used to ones in which quite living friends are blown up or sliced open or shot down – but this one is sticking with him, because it's much, much too possible. Reid has a tendency to be reckless with his own life, to empathize just a touch too much with UnSubs, to walk into dangerous situations with no weapon, no vest, no backup. The kid is the stupidest genius Derek has ever met.

Actually, that's not true. He's met plenty of very high-functioning sociopaths who were stupid enough to think that they would never get caught; even stupid enough to think that messing with the BAU was good idea. And sometimes, when he thinks about all Reid's statistics and probabilities and calculations, when he remembers all the hell the kid's been through, when looks into too-old eyes just in time to see the walls snap into place –

Sometimes, Derek is certain that Reid knows exactly what he's doing.

.

.

.

Penelope dreams that she's in a castle, at a ball. She's not a princess – that privilege (or burden, perhaps) is reserved for the slender, blue-eyed young woman, moving around the room with effortless grace in her elaborate blue gown, and her fierce, raven-haired sister, in trousers, with a sword on her belt, her loose hair her only concession to the occasion as she sulks by the doorway and pretends that she's not enjoying herself.

No, Penelope is a sorceress. _The_ sorceress, the most powerful and learned sorceress in all the land, and also the kindest and most loved, of course. She heals all ails and solves all problems and tonight, she is an honored guest at King Hotchner's castle.

Unfortunately, she doesn't know anyone. In order to remedy that, she walks up to the most handsome knight she can find, and curtsies politely.

"How do you do, good sir. May I inquire as to whom among the present company is most equipped to acquaint me with the goings on of the kingdom? I am afraid that I have been rather negligent in keeping up with such matters, as of late."

"You're probably best off talking to Reid; he knows everything," said the knight, waving vaguely at the far end of the hall. "Why are you talking like that, anyway?" he asks, raising one eyebrow at her.

" _Derek!_ " she hisses, irritated. "You're a knight. I'm a sorceress. We're in a _castle_. There are protocols!"

"Right, sorry," says Derek with an apologetic grimace, then clears his throat and makes another attempt, in a melodramatic tone and horrendous British accent. "Verily, fair maiden, 'tis yonder youth who holdeth the information thou doth seek. Go thither, and merry be thy quest!"

"Many thanks, good sir," says Penelope, and it's only slightly sarcastic. She can hear Derek chuckling behind her as she moves away, towards the tawny-haired young man who's sitting near the head of the table, staring absently into space as his slender fingers tap on his cane, which is propped against his chair.

At least Spencer seems to understand the concept of staying in character, though his voice is a bit more stilted than usual as he stumbles over the unfamiliar speech patterns. Still, he's nothing if not a talker, and soon she has most of the relevant information.

King Hotchner is wise, strong, and good, but he, and thus the kingdom, is in upheaval after the recent battle with an evil wizard and the loss of his queen. In order to regain some equilibrium, he has placed Sir Morgan, the most trusted of his knights, in charge temporarily. Steward Rossi seems slightly disgruntled, but then, Steward Rossi is always disgruntled. He's a good man, Spencer assures her, even a great one, just bad-tempered. Princess JJ got married some time ago to an upstanding nobleman from a neighboring kingdom. They have a son, and are quite happy. Princess Emily has no intention of getting married, too busy trying to prove that she's as good as or better than any of the knights at anything and everything. If not for Sir Morgan's skill, she would almost certainly have accomplished it by now.

"And what about you?" Penelope asks.

"What about me?" asks Spencer, looking surprised. "I'm just the bookkeeper."

"If you're 'just the bookkeeper,' then how did that happen?" she challenges, pointing to his heavily bandaged leg.

"Knowledge is power," answers Spencer with a shrug. "Power is dangerous."

The scene dissolves around her as she floats back to reality. Her bed is warm and soft, it's Saturday, and she spares a moment to mull over the dream before she moves to get up. All of them, her and her babies, in a magical kingdom. Despite all the hints of past darkness, it was really quite pleasant, she thinks. Hopeful.

Fantasy stories – the good ones, anyway – always end with 'happily ever after.'

.

.

.

Dave dreams that he's in the dog park – no, he's at Quantico with the team – no, it's both. The Chocolate Lab leaps playfully around the bad-tempered German Pinscher, asking for a snap; Morgan hangs over the side of Prentiss' cubicle, grinning teasingly while she glares. The Toy Poodle lets its tongue loll out as it rolls contentedly on the grass, while the Beagle thumps its tail on the ground in cheerful agreement; Garcia makes some joke and JJ laughs merrily in response. The German Sheppard sits off to the side, looking longsuffering but relaxed; Aaron stands on the balcony, the ghost of a smile just visible behind his eyes.

It feels like something's missing . . . .

Oh. _That_ one.

The mutt – small and scrawny and irritating as hell – throws itself and Dave's knees, yipping excitedly; Reid comes up to him, tripping over his own feet and spouting some useless fact or another. Now, Dave likes dogs – but he can't stand puppies. He aims a kick at it; he says something scathing. He's not sure if it connects, but the mutt backs off, whimpering; Reid shuts up, looking hurt.

He awakes with the vague thought that he shouldn't feel that good about kicking puppies, then scoffs at himself as he gets ready for work. Dream analysis is bunk, anyway. It's just a lot of hand waving and fancy words, and Dave is definitely not going to go psychoanalyzing his subconscious interpretation of the bad Chinese he ate last night.

Still, the comparison between their resident know-it-all and an excited puppy isn't bad . . . .

He shapes it into a jibe later that week, when the stress is getting to him and Reid's enthusiasm over dead bodies is just a bit more grating than usual. The rest of the team hides their smirks with varying degrees of success, and the look Reid shoots him _does_ look a bit like he's been kicked.

Dave is certain that it should not be so satisfying to hurt someone.

.

.

.

Aaron dreams that they're working a case. The details are fuzzy, but he knows that it's bad, worse than usual, complicated and brutal and horrifying. They're in some local police station; he's not sure where, but that doesn't matter. What matters are the photos on the board, people – young women? Children? Both? – cut into pieces. Tiny, tiny pieces, and all perimortem. They were kept alive as long as possible, gagged and bound so that they couldn't even scream while all their extremities were slowly, agonizingly carved away . . . .

But he can't get stuck on that now. They have a killer to catch.

Which is what they're doing, talking and hypothesizing and adding the occasional touch of gallows humor, just so that they don't drown in the horror of it. There's something strange in the rhythm of the conversation, though; something off about Reid's voice. Aaron glances at the younger agent and is alarmed to see that he's even paler than usual, paper-white under the fluorescent bulbs. He makes a note to talk to him later.

The next time he looks, the boy-genius has faded even further, transparent and ephemeral even as he continues to speak, weakly and stiltedly but always, always accurate. Aaron's about to cut him off, to ask what's wrong, to demand an explanation for his suddenly ghostly appearance – but then his phone rings, and it's Jess, and she's watching Jack and he really needs to take this.

Five minutes later he's back – he can't remember what the phone call was about, but that's not important. What's important is that he can read the digital clock behind Reid more easily than he can make out the pattern on his sweater vest. Strangely enough, no one else seems to notice, and before he can call it to their attention, Garcia is on the phone. She could have just what they need to crack the case – surely Reid will be fine for another few minutes?

He puts down the phone after the conversation yields no new information, feeling disheartened. But Reid is barely even visible anymore, so he plucks up his resolve and moves forward to question him – but then the police chief is in front of him, declaring grimly that they've found another body. Everyone leaps into action, and Aaron turns to tell Reid that he should sit this one out and that's an order.

The desk where Reid was perched is empty, his messenger bag lying abandoned.

Aaron reaches down to touch it, and feels a chill.

He jerks awake with a gasp. He feels confused and more than a little disquieted as he rolls out of bed, too preoccupied to even feel the usual rush of pain and love and guilt as he pauses automatically in front of Jack's room. Now more than ever, he's grown accustomed to nightmares – but this wasn't like his usual ones, and he knows better than to ignore his subconscious.

They've all had a rough time of it lately, and Reid tends to internalize things more than the others. A result of his impeccable memory, perhaps, or his traumatic childhood, or just the fact he always seems to be the one who gets caught in the backlash when things go wrong; the one who's kidnapped or beaten or held hostage or shot –

Aaron cuts off that line of thought, shaking his head as he begins to pack Jack's lunch for school. Reid is a strong kid – a strong man, he corrects, recalling that the genius' thirtieth birthday is approaching. He's also a very private, defensive one, and he wouldn't take kindly to any protectiveness on Aaron's part. In fact, he would probably view it as a lack of confidence.

Still, Aaron resolves to keep a closer eye on their youngest agent.

.

.

.

JJ dreams that she's eating brunch somewhere sunny, with Will on one side of her and Henry – older, but still undoubtedly her son – on the other. Garcia is sitting across from her, her colorful bracelets sparkling as she passes the scrambled eggs to Will.

They're laughing, joking, happy and relaxed. It's Henry's eighth birthday, JJ knows. He's grown into a bright, friendly, wonderful boy. Later, they'll have a party, with extended family and pizza and presents and enough games to keep a horde of sugar-infused third graders occupied for a few hours. Right now it's just them: Henry and Mom and Dad and Aunt Penelope.

She feels a dull ache inside her chest and isn't sure why. Maybe she's missing her sister. It's been decades since her sister committed suicide, but the pain still flares up at odd moments. That must be it; she's sad because Henry will never know his blood aunt.

"Can I ask you guys something?" says Henry, toying with his food. The mood has shifted, suddenly, the sky darker and the light grayer. Even Garcia's colorful outfit seems duller.

JJ pushes down her inexplicable dread, and nods.

"Of course you can. We might not be able to answer, but you can always ask questions."

"Why doesn't Uncle Spencer ever visit anymore?"

JJ's insides freeze as her mind scrambles for a foothold. Will looks uncomfortable, Garcia looks like she's about to cry, and JJ doesn't know what's going on, why doesn't she remember, how could she have forgotten –

She's outside Spencer's apartment, and she doesn't know why she's here but she does know that something's wrong, something's very, very wrong and the door is cracked so she pushes it open –

And there's blood, so much blood, too much blood, dark crimson against his pale, pale skin and she's screaming his name and fumbling for her phone but she knows, knows in her heart and deep in the pit of her stomach that it's too late, far too late, and he's been heading for this for ages without any of them noticing and how, how could they not notice, how could she not read the signs, _how could he do this_ –?

"JJ!"

She bursts back into consciousness with a muffled yelp, and Will is beside her, looking worried as he shakes her awake. She allows him to pull her into his arms and begins to sob helplessly.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," he says, rubbing her back soothingly. "It's alright; it was just a dream."

Gradually, she calms, reassured by his warmth and his voice and the knowledge that Henry is two, not eight, and that his godfather and one of her best friends is in his apartment, sleeping or reading or fighting his own nightmares, alone, and almost certainly not lying in a pool of his own blood as the knife slips from his limp fingers –

She chokes back another wave of sobs, and Will holds her more tightly.

The first thing she does when she arrives at work the next morning is locate Spencer and pull him into a hug. He's tense at first, then awkward, and really far too skinny for the embrace to be anything close to comfortable, but she doesn't mind. Her eyes are prickling again when she pulls away, but he's eying her warily, so she suppresses the tears.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and she nearly laughs at the question, but doesn't, because that would just set her crying again.

"Yeah," she says, pulling herself together and offering him the best smile she can muster. "Yeah, Spence, I'm fine. I just didn't sleep very well last night."

He nods hesitantly, but he's not a genius profiler for nothing. He obviously isn't buying it, but he's made avoidance into a lifestyle, and he's not going to push her if she doesn't want him to.

"Are _you_ alright?" she asks, even though she knows she won't get an honest answer.

"Of course I am," he answers, just a bit too quickly. "Hey, I was thinking about that line in _The Day on the Moon_ when the Doctor says that he's never been to space, 1969 before, which would seem to be a gross continuity error considering Martha's assertion in _Blink_ that they'd seen the moon landing four times, but it occurred to me that his exact wording is 'somewhere brand new,' and since he's speaking in response to Amy's question he could be referring to something brand new in _her_ experience – also, while it would be irresponsible for Stephen Moffat to overlook something like that – especially taking into account that he wrote both episodes – it would be perfectly acceptable and even in character for the Doctor to bend the truth for the sake of a witty one-liner. In fact, in the 1975 serial _Pyramids of Mars,_ the fourth Doctor states . . ."

JJ lets him ramble, and even listens for a few minutes. While she isn't interested in Doctor Who as anything more than occasional entertainment and a point of commonality with him, it's good to know that he can still get worked up about something as simple as a television show. It's good for him, she thinks, to be able to set his constantly active mind on something more benign than the horrors they see every day.

The shadows under his eyes don't worry her half as much as the ones behind them.

.

.

.

Emily dreams that she's in a warehouse, searching for something. She's not sure what it looks like or even exactly what it is, but she knows that she wants it, _needs_ it like she's never needed anything before in her life. The warehouse is piled high with boxes, hundreds of them, cardboard and steamer trunks and treasure chests and everything in between. She goes from one to another, ripping them open frantically.

One is stuffed with clothing, another with colorful glass marbles. She leaps back with a curse when she opens an elaborate, jewel-encrusted case, only to find it crawling with cockroaches, huge and disgusting.

Finally, she reaches the last box. It's dark and official-looking, and she opens it with trembling hands.

Sand.

She chokes back a sob and kicks the box, hard. It doesn't budge, and she kicks it again, despair rising in her chest. It's not here. She's looked through every, single, stinking box in this whole goddamn warehouse and it's _not here_ , not anywhere, it was all just a fucking _lie_ –

"Emily!"

She turns at the familiar voice to find Reid jogging towards her, as awkward as he always is when he moves, a grin on his face.

"I found it!" he says excitedly. She hadn't realized that he was looking, just the same as her, but he must have been, because he pulls something out of his messenger bag. It's small and velvet, like a ring box, and he cradles in his hands like it's the most precious thing in the world, his face shining. "Here," he says, holding it out to her. "We can share it."

She takes it from him carefully. He brushes his long hair out of his face and watches her eagerly as she opens it.

Inside is something tiny and glittering and impossibly, achingly beautiful. It's like a diamond, but different from any diamond she's ever seen, shimmering with its own light and warm in her hands.

"No," she states abruptly.

"What?" asks Reid, his face falling.

" _No_ ," she repeats, irrational fury bubbling in her stomach. It's a fake, it has to be, everything is always a fake – in a fit of pique, she rips it from the box and throws it to the ground. It shatters on impact, shrapnel stinging her arms.

Reid stares at her, horrified and betrayed.

"Why did you do that?" he whispers, and she feels her anger fade beneath cold, oppressive shame.

"I – I thought it wasn't real –" But she was wrong, she was so wrong, and she would do anything, anything at all to put it right, but she can't, and that wonderful, fragile thing which she searched so long to find is in a million little pieces on the ground and it's all her fault and Reid is looking at her with wide, hurt eyes – "I'm sorry," she chokes out, reaching towards him, but he jerks away from her hand.

"Reid, please," she begs, but he just shakes his head and backs away, finally turning and breaking into a run. " _Reid!_ " she shouts desperately, but he's already gone.

She awakes with tears on her face, and wipes them away roughly as she flicks on the light. It's not _that_ early, so she heads into work.

Unsurprisingly, Reid is already there, sipping coffee and filling out paperwork. He greets her cheerfully, and she tries to respond in kind. He really has forgiven her, she thinks – but forgiving and forgetting are two different things, as she well knows. His haircut isn't the only thing that makes him look older, these days, and just because he doesn't resent her anymore doesn't mean that he's ever going to trust her again.

She ran partly because she wanted to protect them, but also because she still thought, somewhere deep inside, that anyone she relied on would let her down. She should have realized that this time, she was the one being relied on. Relied on to be honest, to be stable, to be good and safe and dependable. But instead she ran, abandoned her job and her friends who could have been family and, in one fell swoop, destroyed any progress Reid had made towards overcoming the instinct which had been carved into both of them from a young age:

_Don't. Trust. Anyone._

Reid smiles, and it seems genuine.

She isn't sure she'd be able to tell if it weren't.

.

.

.

Spencer dreams that he's lost. He's never been lost in any town or city or country in the world – he remembers every line of every map he's ever seen, and he makes it a point to see a map before he goes anywhere – but there are no maps here. No maps, no light. Just the screams of everyone he couldn't save, the gunshots of every broken, twisted soul whom he couldn't talk down, his mother's begging as he does the only thing he can, his father's frustration, the taunts of every schoolyard bully, the silence of every indifferent bystander –

The acrid smell of burning fish floods his nostrils and he gags, chokes, sobs. It's cold, so cold, and his head is full of facts and ghosts and broken promises and he can never forget any of it even he wanted to, and he wants to, he wants to, he wants to believe in something again, wants to forget that everyone who's supposed to be his friend lies and leaves and he can't even blame them because they're all just as broken as the people they're chasing and sometimes, all the time, he thinks that he's the most broken of all and why would anyone want to stay if they had anywhere and anyone else they could possibly go to –

"Spence!"

He snaps awake with a sob in his throat and tears on his face. JJ is bending over him, sympathetic and concerned.

"It's alright," she murmurs, sinking down beside as he sits up. He scrubs his hands over his face, leaves them there. His brief glimpse of the cabin was enough to see that Hotch and Rossi are carefully not paying attention to them, Morgan is honestly asleep, which is a relief (he teases, and Spencer's really not in the mood), and Prentiss is doing a bad job of pretending not to notice what's going on.

It's more than a little embarrassing, but still . . . JJ's hand is warm and comforting on his back, and her understanding silence is more soothing than any words could be, and even Prentiss' worried glances aren't as grating as they would have been a few weeks ago.

It's infinitely better than waking up alone.


End file.
